


You Are the Revelation

by spire_cx



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dongwoo may or may not get on a train. there may or may not be an accident. somewhere, he opens his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are the Revelation

There's something rattling in Dongwoo's seat.

The train is gaining speed as it rounds the mountain, and the entire car is vibrating beneath him. His bag is bouncing in his lap, and his head bumps against the window when he tries to sleep.

He knows he shouldn't be tired: he slept well last night. It's not even noon. Well, he's not tired, really. He's just feeling a little sad, a little homesick, a little overwhelmed by his own emotions, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore. He wants to sleep it away. Just a short nap, he thinks. He would just like a short nap, but the train seems ill-disposed to grant it. He struggles to find a comfortable position in his seat.

It's a clear summer day and the landscape is awash with light. The sun shines through the window and across his arms, in hot patches that wink in and out as they pass under trees and electric lines. It sparkles in the small river that follows alongside the tracks, meandering through the valley's fields. Dongwoo watches the reflection of the sky in the tranquil water.

The train is still rattling as it banks around a turn.

Then, there's the sound.

It starts as a rumble: great vibrations that come up through the floor, turning Dongwoo's legs to jelly. Then there's the distant shriek of metal breaking, and the gritty thunder of iron grinding against stone, and a loud, reverberating crack.

They're the sounds of a tremendous machine in irreversible pain, and Dongwoo's heart skips, stumbles, and falls, all in an instant, as he recognizes them for what they are.

But he has no time to react.

   
 

There's the sound, and then, two seconds later, the impact. 

The car is rocked by a violent jolt. Suitcases jump out of the luggage racks, the lights blink out, and women scream. Dongwoo probably screams too, but he can't hear himself over the chaos.

They're moving but it doesn't feel like they're on the tracks. It's bumpy, Dongwoo is bouncing in his seat, and the train is making awful screeching noises. He can't help but imagine the worst: that they're derailing and rolling down a hill, or falling off a bridge and into the river, and soon the water will come and take him.

But the water never comes. The car comes to a hard, sudden stop, and Dongwoo hits his brow on the seat in front of him. And then everything is silent and still.

An older man behind him asks if everyone is okay. People mutter, and one-by-one, stand. Dongwoo feels a bit dazed—like he's lost the last fifteen seconds of his life, like he lived them on some other world and can't get them back except in fits and snatches.

Someone from the crew comes and leads them off the train. Outside, the afternoon could not be more perfect: but on the breeze are the smells of fuel and smoke.

There's a fire near the front of the train. The head cars are sideways on the tracks and folded up against each other like an accordion. Dongwoo can't even see the locomotive. They must have hit something and derailed. It's a terrifying thought, even though it's already over.

He's still shaking, his entire body buzzing with adrenaline. His neck is sore and his eye is swelling up where he hit his forehead, but he's okay, he's unhurt, and when he sees a man walking toward the front of the train to help others, he doesn't think twice about going with him.

Some of the cars have tipped over, or have fallen off the tracks and down a small hill. The other man is taller, so he lifts Dongwoo up into the cars on their sides, and Dongwoo helps passengers down. Soon, others join them. They move car by car towards the front of the train. 

For the most part people are not seriously injured, but the further they go, the more bloody faces they see. Then there are broken bones, and people who need to be carried. There are old people who are unconscious, and Dongwoo doesn't want to think about what happened to them, or what's going to happen to them. He tries not to think about any of it.

Soon, it's too dangerous to go on. The head car has been thrown on top of the locomotive. One end has been crushed. The inside is on fire, and smoke billows out of its cracked metal skin.

They stand and watch it, hands at their sides.

"We can't," the first man says.

So they let it burn.

   
 

When they were told about their one-week vacation between promotions, Dongwoo was excited. It had been a long time since their last vacation, and the break was much-needed. He was exhausted, worn down by the rehearsals, performances, recordings, photo shoots, and hours-long practice sessions, not to mention the constant back-and-forth to Japan. Dongwoo never would have guessed that two-hour flights could be so draining.

But now that he's sitting here on the train, away from the managers, stylists, and other members for the first time in what feels like years, he's not so excited anymore.

He does _want_ to see his grandparents. Their village is a little boring, sure, but he enjoys spending time with them, and the peace and quiet will do him good. He tells himself that he needs this: that it will be peaceful and calm and rejuvenating. He tries to think about the wind chimes in the windows, the bright white laundry on the clotheslines, and the smell of incense in the temples, but his mind keeps wandering back: back to the dance studio, back to the lights, back to the mirrors and the music.

Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, he doesn't want to be on this train. He wants to be dancing.

He wants to be in motion. He wants to put on a playlist and freestyle the day away. He wants to be in that space inside him where things are bright and awake and humming. He wants to be where he was just last night, in front of the mirror with Hoya, watching their bodies move in time together. He thinks about that feeling of flowing, like a river into the sea, and knows he needs it much more than he needs a quiet weekend in the country.

He's tempted to get off at the next stop and turn around—but he's too obedient of a son to do something like that.

He pulls out his phone and messages Hoya.

"Haha, I'm so bored," he types.

And then: "I wish I was dancing right now."

Hoya's reply is almost instantaneous.

"Me too," he responds.

And then: "I already miss dancing with you."

Yeah. Dongwoo does, too.

   
 

Dongwoo spends four hours in the hospital, most of them waiting to be examined. His only injuries are mild whiplash and a black eye. They give him an ice pack, painkillers, and something to help him sleep.

Someone from Woollim comes to pick him up, with Sunggyu and Hoya in tow. It's a little embarrassing when they see each other, and they run to embrace him in the middle of the hospital lobby. He tries to tell them that he's not hurt, that they don't need to worry about him, that everything is fine—but he can't find the words, and his throat is suddenly tight, and when he moves his lips nothing comes out.

"You don't have to talk about it," Sunggyu says, and Dongwoo doesn't think he's ever heard him sound so old, and so mature.

So they don't talk about it. They don't talk about anything.

On the way home they stop for food. As the other two fetch takeout, Hoya and Dongwoo sit in silence in the back of the van and watch the street darken as night comes over the city.

"Are you okay?" Hoya eventually asks.

Dongwoo pauses. He takes the ice pack from his face and rolls it between his hands.

"Yeah," he says. He touches his swollen eye. "I'm fine."

It starts to rain a little. The first raindrops tap against the windshield, and Dongwoo watches the pavement around them grow gradually dark and gleaming. Up and down the sidewalk umbrellas open, blooming like black flowers in the night.

"I mean," Hoya says, his voice low, "are you _okay_?"

Hoya's looking at him sidelong. His expression is guarded and his eyes are hidden in shadow, but there's something serious in the set of his jaw and the square of his shoulders—like some massive, monolithic emotion is finally emerging from his depths.

Dongwoo looks down into his lap, humbled and overwhelmed. 

If it were anyone else, he would lie.

"I dunno," he says, quiet.

Hoya looks away. A police car wails past them and the rain intensifies, thrumming on the roof of the van.

"Tell me if you want anything, okay?" Hoya says, and Dongwoo can barely hear him, his voice is so soft. "I mean, if there's anything you need from me. I just... want you to be okay."

Dongwoo isn't sure what to say. He opens his mouth to thank him, but Hoya cuts him off.

"And I'm sorry. For everything. I'm just really... really sorry," he says. "And I really love you, you know?"

Dongwoo does know.

Then Hoya lays a hand on his thigh, wide and warm, and Dongwoo's breath goes out of him in a sudden rush. Before he can help himself, Dongwoo is sobbing: first into his hands and then into Hoya's shoulder, clutching handfuls of his t-shirt in his fists.

"Aish, Dongwoo..." Hoya sighs. But his voice is weak and wavering like he's crying too, and in that instant, Dongwoo knows he's the only one who understands.

Impossibly, unthinkably, he's the only one who will ever understand.

Later he falls asleep with his head in Hoya's lap, and has a dream about the ocean.

   
 

There's the sound, and then, two seconds later, the impact.

Dongwoo is thrown face-first into the seat ahead of him, and his head explodes in pain. The world disappears in a flash of green and gold and next he knows he's sliding away from the window as the car begins to tip. He holds tight to his seat, feeling his fingernails digging into the leather.

They're moving in a direction they shouldn't be. All the luggage is falling out of the racks, raining down on top of him. He can see only sky outside his window; they must be rolling down a hill, or falling off a bridge. He has no other explanations for the way their momentum is shifting, swinging them in wide arcs like an amusement park ride.

He holds tight to his seat, crushing the armrests in his hands and bracing himself for the worst—but the worst never comes. They come to a stop with a bump, the car listing dramatically but upright and stable.

It's over too quickly. Dongwoo sits very still, holding his breath, waiting for something more. A young woman from the train crew asks in a tremulous voice if everyone is okay. Some of the passengers stand up.

The woman directs them off the train, and Dongwoo stumbles outside in a daze. The afternoon is sunny and warm. They're on a little hill, and the slope is carpeted in thick green grass. Below are only rice fields. In the distance, a small village.

Behind him, the train has folded up like an accordion. Some of the cars have fallen over; some have slid down the hill. There's a fire somewhere Dongwoo can't see, pouring oily black smoke into the sky.

But he doesn't want to look at the train right now.

He walks down the hill, sits down in the grass, and looks out over the fields.

   
 

At his grandparents' house Dongwoo is treated to a homemade dinner. He takes a long, hot shower for the first time in months. He sits on the balcony and pets the cat and tries to enjoy having no obligations. It's nice, getting back all the little things; and it's nice, talking to his grandmother and grandfather, watching TV with them, telling them about his new life; but when night falls he lies by himself in the darkness, all alone in an empty room, and sees _nice_ for what it is: _nice_ , nothing more, and nothing less.

He finds himself calling Hoya, even though it's late. And even though it's late Hoya picks up, and doesn't just tell him to hang up and go to sleep. Dongwoo lies in bed and talks to him for over two hours. They talk about their families and their old lives; Dongwoo tells him stories about when he was a kid. He tells him about the time he tricked his sister into eating mud, the time the dog ran away and they chased it through the streets, and the time he almost drowned trying to impress a classmate. Hoya's not a very talkative guy, but Dongwoo's okay with that: it makes the things he does say that much more special.

Though truth be told, Dongwoo likes it when Hoya just listens. He likes hearing him listening: breathing, sighing, murmuring his approval or understanding. He's not sure why. It makes him feel safe; it makes him feel sleepy.

That night, Dongwoo has a dream about the ocean.

   
 

It's hard to think about what just happened. There's a terrible pain between his eyes, and his mouth tastes like he's been sucking on a handful of rusty nails. When he puts his sleeve to his nose, it comes away soaked in blood, terrible and bright.

His head really hurts, and his skin feels dry. Does he have moisturizer in his bag? He doesn't remember. Where is his bag? He looks around where he's sitting, but of course it's not there. Maybe he left it on the train. He was on a train, right? He doesn't really remember getting off.

He looks down at his hands. The sleeves of his hoodie are spotted with wide, damp patches of blood where he's pressed them to his nose. His hands are bloody too, though it's beginning to dry in the sun, flaking off in crackled ferrous sheets.

There's a man in a suit sitting near him who seems hurt. The hair on the back of his head is matted with blood, wet and glistening. Somewhere a girl is crying. Dongwoo thinks that maybe he should help some people, but as soon as he stands up his legs start to wobble and he has to sit back down. The world roils around him like a furious sea desperate to pull him under.

He starts to worry. Something doesn't feel right, and he can't quite remember how he got here. Why is he outside? Wasn't he just on a train? He tries hard to think about what happened. He knows something happened, because the last thing he remembers, he was in a train station. He looks down at his hands, and is terrified to find them bloody.

Hoya.

He needs to talk to Hoya.

Shaking, he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

"Where are you?" he types. "I'm a little lost."

And then: "I'm kind of scared."

And then: "I need you."

He's telling himself he needs to keep it together, but now that he's put it into words he realizes he would give anything to have him here right now, and his throat is tight with the thought of it.

His phone buzzes in his palm. It's Hoya.

"What happened?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

The sound of his voice is bright, clarion, and staggering, and Dongwoo can't help it—he puts his head in his hands and starts to sob. He feels like half a person all of a sudden: like all the dams of his devotion have finally given way, crumbling like sandcastles to the tide. He needs him—he _needs_ him, and it's a terrifying realization.

"Hey, hey, Dongwoo, it's okay. Stay with me."

He does. He stays with him the entire afternoon, as Hoya talks him through the ambulance ride and the examinations and the interrogations and even the dreams: the visions of the ocean he sees when he closes his eyes and snatches at sleep.

   
 

There's the sound, and then, two seconds later, the impact. Dongwoo is thrown face-first into the seat ahead of him, and his head explodes in pain. The world disappears in a flash of green and gold and next he knows he's sliding away from the window as the car begins to tip. He fumbles at the seats but can't find purchase. Gravity takes him, and he falls toward the opposite side of the car.

He lands hard on the luggage rack. Pain lances through his body, so intense he can't breathe, and he sees red and blue stars sparking across his vision. 

The car is half tipped over and skidding sideways down the tracks. Through the windows beneath his feet Dongwoo can see the ground flying past: gravel, railroad ties, tracks. They must be falling down a hill, or off a bridge, but Dongwoo can't stop to think about it before there's another lurch and a deafening crash. The far end of the car crumples like paper, and he's thrown against the ceiling by the force of the impact.

It's all over in seventeen seconds, and when it's done, there's silence.

When Dongwoo opens his eyes, he's laying in the luggage rack. His first thoughts are that his head hurts and his mouth tastes awful. He spits blood into his hand and thinks he's lost teeth before realizing it's his nose that's bleeding. He touches his lips; they're wet and tacky, and blood is streaming hot and slippery down his face. He feels very, very warm, all through his stomach like he's eaten a plate of hot coals.

He looks up into the sunlight. Through the window he was sitting at he can see only the raucous blue of the summer sky.

That's when he realizes he smells fire.

He knows he has to get out. There's an emergency window two seats down, but it may as well be two miles. His body only whirs in place when he tells it to stand. The entire world seems to rock on its axes when he moves his head. Unconsciousness lurks like a hungry predator.

It's only two seats, but he knows it would be easier to just close his eyes and go to sleep. Perhaps he'll have a nice dream. He can see its gentle landscape even now.

But then there's a voice coming up from the deep, and it's as clear as day, and bright like bells pealing in autumn.

   
 

"Don't worry," the voice says, "it's easy. I'll show you."

Dongwoo's breath hitches in his throat. "Hoya?"

It's definitely Hoya's voice. Dongwoo knows Hoya's not actually here; this must be a memory or a hallucination. Maybe it's both. Maybe he's dying—though he doesn't feel like he's dying.

He doesn't have much time to think about why he's hearing a voice, or why the voice belongs to Hoya. He's just beginning to wrap his mind around it when the car suddenly goes dark. Dongwoo looks up; the sky is filled with a cloud of thick black smoke. No sunlight comes through.

"You just need to concentrate," Hoya tells him.

Yes. Concentrate. He can do that.

"So, this is how it goes. First, move your arms: up and then down again."

Dongwoo reaches above his head and grabs a rung of the luggage rack. His arms shake with the effort, but he manages to pull himself toward the emergency window.

"Yeah," Hoya says, "and then do the same thing three more times on the beat: one, two, three."

Dongwoo moves as quickly as he can. He tells himself he's young and strong, that he can do this, that this is nothing compared to what he does every single day in the dance studio—and before he realizes it, he's looking at the emergency window through the supports of the luggage rack. He reaches through them and pulls both of the bright red handles, releasing the window glass from its locks.

"Good. Then you put one foot up," Hoya says.

Dongwoo throws one leg over the luggage rack, and holds tight to the edge with both hands. He takes as deep a breath as he can.

"This is going to hurt, Dongwoo."

He knows that Hoya's not talking about dancing anymore.

"Yeah," Dongwoo says, "I know."

"It's okay. You can do it, right?"

Of course he can do it.

The pain is instantaneous. It shoots through his body as soon as he starts to pull himself up: sharp searing pain in his stomach, against his spine, in his chest, all the way up his throat and through his head. It's not the worst of it, he knows, and he wishes this wasn't the only way. But it is, and he must, and there's someone waiting for him on the other side of the window.

So he pulls himself up, using all the strength left in his battered body. For a moment he's lying on the edge of the luggage rack—the pain is unfathomable, and for a moment reality slides in and out of reach. His body gives out, and he feels it in the marrow of his bones when he rolls off the rack and lands back on the wall of the car.

It takes him a moment to surface from the haze of pain. He's panting, exhausted, and nearly undone—he's not sure how much more of this he can take.

But when he opens his eyes, the rack is behind him. And at his feet, the window.

"There. You can do it. It's simple now," Hoya says.

 _Simple_. He's burning on the inside, and the world is burning around him, but even in all the flames, Hoya's voice is the only light.

Dongwoo kicks with all his might.

His body lights up in pain, every molecule of him is screaming in agony, but the window does not give.

He kicks again—and again, and again, and again. He's never tried so hard at anything, never wanted anything so badly. The edges of his vision go dark with concentration: he sees only the window and the world beyond it. He might be screaming, the moon might be falling from the sky—all that matters is the pane of glass between himself and the rest of his life.

He doesn't know how many times he tries: maybe six, maybe sixteen, maybe sixty. None of them register until he feels something shift beneath his foot.

Then the window falls and shatters on the tracks below.

He's not sure what happens after that. He knows he stumbles out, sees the sun, falls to his knees. There's a cool breeze. Someone picks him up.

And as he descends into darkness, he thinks he hears the ocean.

   
 

Dongwoo planned on taking the 9:21 from Seoul station. If he doesn't get up soon he'll miss it, but he's having a wonderful dream and can't bring himself to wake.

   
 

He's following railroad tracks through a forest. The city is a train, but it's gone off ahead of him, and he's left here in the wilderness.

The world around him is verdant and bright. He's walking through ferns and ivy; the distant canopy moves like green lace fluttering in the wind. He passes strange monuments as he walks: a boulder, a statue of Gwaneum, a pile of huge rusty chains. His house is somewhere in this forest, too, though he can't see it now. It's short and red and gabled, with a tiny porch and a wall around it made of plywood. He remembers the small, cozy rooms, the view of the forest from his bedroom window, and the carpet of yellow ginkgo leaves in his yard in the fall.

Soon there's water around his ankles. The forest floor has flooded. He knows somehow that the moon has fallen from the sky, and the tide has come in for the first time. Through the trees he catches glimpses of the sea, silent and vast. He keeps walking. He knows there's something waiting for him at the end of the tracks.

Soon the water is up to his thighs. Leaves fall as if the season is changing around him. He smells the ocean on the breeze now, salty and ancient. The tracks glint silver under the water.

Soon the water is at his chest, and then his neck, and then his lips. He doesn't fight it. When he slips underneath, he doesn't have to hold his breath.

He walks into the sea; he walks deeper and deeper. He can feel the fathoms bearing down on him from above. It is hard to move under the water, as if he's struggling against time to put one foot in front of the other. The forest floor becomes rocky, then sandy; the trees and ferns are replaced by great masses of coral and seaweed, lit with gentle and forgiving sunlight. And still, the tracks go on.

Then the light suddenly disappears, and he passes through a period of darkness. The ground drops out from under him, and he sinks like a stone into the inky black of the deep sea. The sky glitters far above him, dim and darkening as he falls to the ocean floor. It becomes harder and harder to breathe. The pressure is a hand around his heart and a fist down his throat; his body throbs with a cold, heavy pain.

But somehow, he feels satisfied. Drowning is a small price to pay for deliverance, he thinks. This isn't surrender; this is transformation.

Then his feet are in sand again, and he's standing on the barren plain of the seabed, and it's lit up all white and warm and soft. He feels as if he's been hollowed out, somehow—as if the sun was discontent to give him up and decided to take some keepsake of him.

But he has no need for that part of himself anymore.

The tracks are here, half-hidden in the sand. He follows them, walking fleet-footed across the desert. He walks through a forest of light; he walks over a mountain. He walks and walks, because he knows now that there's something burning at the bottom of the sea, calling out to him.

Yes. He knows now that somebody's waiting for him there.

   
 

Dongwoo opens his eyes.

For a moment, he's not sure where he is. He feels like he's been swimming in a vast ocean, swimming for a very long time—struggling against the currents, the tides, and the moon. He didn't think he'd ever find the shore.

Hoya's here. He's a bit disheveled, his hair uncharacteristically out-of-place and his eyes red with exhaustion. Maybe he's been swimming, too.

"Hi," Hoya says, seeing Dongwoo wake.

"Hi," Dongwoo says. His voice feels shaky and unsure, as if he's not spoken in a very long time.

"How are you?" Hoya asks.

Dongwoo takes a deep breath. "Fine," he says. "Good."

Hoya nods. He looks down at his hands and then back at Dongwoo. His eyes are sorry and sad, and Dongwoo's not sure what to say. He still feels a little lost, really. But then Hoya sighs, and Dongwoo sees his shoulders rise and fall, and suddenly he remembers something—something very important, something that takes his breath away.

Yes.

"I heard your voice," he says.

It's like discovering a house with a thousand doors open in the darkness. It's like stepping inside and knowing he's home.


End file.
